Ropes
by Anesthesiologist
Summary: Sherlock decides to teach John the finer points of being a Consulting Detective, leading to a case resulting in Sherlock's admitance to a Psychiatric Ward. No slash, Minor OCC-ness
1. Chapter 1

**John/Sherlock Friendship - Not Slash**

"John, take a look at him. What do you see?"

"Again? Sherlock I'm not goi-"

"John, please."

While sighing and being exasperated, John took a step forward before kneeling down to examine the body. He checked the hands, and for bruising, he even bent over the dead man and smelt his breath. He looked at the man's clothing, the holes in the pant leg, the smoothie on the floor. John circled the body and checked the other side too.

"Cause of death: Asphyxiation. Was drinking and it looks like he got in a fight by the state of his knuckles." John stood and went over to Lestrade and Sherlock, "It wasn't a murder. He drank too much."

"The small details, John. What do you _know _about him?"

"What's that got to-"

"John. Details."

The ex-soldier shifted, "He's, uh… alcoholic. 50s, has a scruff so he doesn't have anywhere high-priority to go, like a job. He's got a milkshake, so, back from someplace… I guess. Ring on finger, so he's married. Maybe has kids… maybe went out to see said kids… maybe said kids are adults? I don't know."

"Good, Doctor, good." Sherlock praised using his hands in a sweeping motion, "Keep going."

John shifted uncertainly and knelt down again, "There's mud on his pants, so he was out by someplace wet. Thames maybe. Why he would meet his kid there, I have no idea." John grabbed his left hand, "The fight, his knuckles, possibly barfight, being a drunk and all. He's uh… got hair on his pants, animal, so he's got a cat. A grey one. Doesn't brush his own hair, and that coupling with the lack of shaving… he lives alone?" John scratched his ear before standing, "I… That's it, I-" He raised his hands, "Done."

"Done?"

"Yes."

…

"Alright, Sherlock, what did I miss? Get wrong? No need to hide it."

"You were right about the Asphyxiation, but the cause was wrong. He OD'd, combination of the drinking and drugs."

"Drugs?"

"Yes, doctor. The smoothies, look at it. The color's off, very off. This man was murdered. Left a bar, got a message from someone close, possibly child because he went out to the Thames to see him. The child, an adult by now, bought him the smoothie, drugged it. His system took to long to react to the drug and that's when he collapsed here, in the middle of the street. The toxicology reports will no doubt confirm my analysis, and that hair's from a terrier, not a cat. He doesn't live alone, he's makes a living pretending to be Santa Claus, the ID in his wallet confirms he's a mall employee."

"Right then." John shifted, "I was wrong about it all, what is the point of having me do this every time?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Yes, John, don't you see? I'm _training_ you." Sherlock gave a wide grin, "Training you to be a scientist of deduction. Like me." Sherlock was obviously proud of himself with that smug grin, "You've already shown quite a bit of progress from the past cases we've worked together, that's when I got the idea. We've been doing this since last week, and I must say, I'm very impressed with your progress. You never glean anything useful… but it _is_ a process, and I'm know you'll get better with practice! Lots and lots of practice."

John deadpanned, "You're joking."

"Not at all, John. I'm quite serious."

Donovan had had enough of this. It was bad enough having _Sherlock Holmes _trail behind them on _every_ bloody case, but to learn that he was using them to _teach_ John become a cruel anti-social psychopath was too much.

"So the Freak is teaching you how to be a freak yourself? Well that's lovely isn't it?" She growled at the John, ignoring Lestrade's 'Donovan!' shout behind her, "I told you to get a hobby! Fishing, or stamp collecting. Instead you chose to become like him." She pushed her finger into his chest, ignoring her not so happy boss in the background, "You're his loyal little dog, aren't you? Don't got no spine or will of your own. You obey everything he says. It's the Freaks now, isn't it? The Freaks!" She backed off, "You're just going to get yourself killed, _Doctor _Watson! He doesn't care about you, he doesn't care about anyone. You should leave, before it's too late."

With that she left, heading towards her police car. After all it was a case solved; no reason to be hanging around any longer than necessary. Sherlock and his dog were on the case after all.

Lestrade stood, face downcast. He was never really sure _how _to handle her. "Sorry about that, Doctor."

"No, it's alright." John seemed a little disheveled, but gave a small and yet forced grin. Lestrade appreciated the effort, however pointless it may be.

Sherlock however, paid no heed, and ignored Donovan's outburst. He'd been completely unphased, probably still stuck on teaching John Watson a thing or two. What a world this was turning out to be, when crime scenes were becoming class rooms for grown men?

"Wait a minute, you've been taking all these extra cases for John?" Lestrade nodded in understanding, "Well then, I got the perfect one in mind, I do like getting these cases over quickly!" He beamed, "Would you like it, Sherlock? I'm sure it's just perfect for John."

"What?" Both men asked in unison, one of sheer horror, the other of pure delight, "What is it?" Sherlock pressed, suddenly crowding in on the Detective, "What's the case?"

Lestrade gulped, suddenly nervous, "A nurse downtown was murdered, but all the suspects had alibis." He gave a slight groan of discomfort as his spine began to bend in an uncomfortable manor, "She was in the morgue at the time, alone, and there's only one way in and out, but the cameras posted by the entrance didn't catch anything. I'm sure it's no challenge for you, Sherlock; but it might be perfect for teaching John a thing or two."

It obviously was just what Sherlock had been hoping for, "Oh!" He clapped his hands excitingly, releasing Lestrade from the death grip, "Brilliant, Inspector!" He lauded before he suddenly turned to John, "It's absolutely perfect! What a case, John! What a case!"

"Wait, wait, wait." Both men paused, "Don't I get a say in this? What if I don't_ want_ to learn how to do… what you do? Did you ever think of that possibility?" John shrugged, "Maybe I'd like to spend this time in a warm bed, sleeping. Or maybe I'd like to get something to eat, an archaic practice which I've forgone for three days? Did you ever think of that?"

"Oh." Sherlock looked like a hurt puppy, "Of course, John."

He paused, "You won't help, I understand completely." He turned dramatically towards the street; his long coat fluttering in the wind, "It's perfectly reasonable! The challenge is just too _great_ for your _tiny_ brain!" And another dramatic pause, "It might even be… _dangerous_!" Sherlock held back the grin as he mentioned the 'forbidden word', "And we wouldn't want you exposed to any… _danger." _There it was again, John would be guaranteed to come along now if he could convince the doctor that he'd nothing better to do.

And so another dramatic pause was cued.

_"_Would we?" Sherlock asked before he turned back to Lestrade, "I'm so very _sorry_, Inspector, but we simply can't take the case." He suddenly flung his index finger right at John, "_He_ refused!"

"Oh, that's just toobad." Lestrade plummeted his hands in his coat pockets, getting the gist of Sherlock's performance, "We needed you two, we did. Couldn't solve it without you."

"I know. Such a shame."

"That woman's sister will go on without any sort of closure."

"Just awful."

"She'll be crying for hours."

"Hmm, might even commit suicide."

"I thin-"

"FINE!" John hissed, throwing up his hands in the air in surrender, "Fine! I'll do it. Just stop with this idiotic charade! _Please_, you're both embarrassing me." He rubbed his face with his palms, beyond irritated, but to see Sherlock's glow after having giving in, well, it almost made it worth it. Almost.

"Excellent, John!" Sherlock clapped as he turned to the DI, "It looks like the game, Lestrade, is on!"

**I'm going to try to make this a multi-chapter story. I haven't done this kind of story in a long while, so I figured I would give it a shot.**

**Please review! :D**


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock and John stood over the body of the psychiatric nurse, Jill Small.

She was a pleasant looking woman, blonde hair and fair skin. She reminded John of his grandmother, Abby Watson. She never baked anything, never did anything for herself really. She spent her days in a wheel chair, with a young nurse looking after her night and day. She was a bit snippy too, but she always knew what to say and how to say it. John especially liked her stories; they were mostly of her younger days, as an army nurse. It had been what inspired him to join the military himself. He never regretted the decision to become an army medic, but he did wish he could've seen Abby before she died. He'd been in Afghanistan at the time.

"Well John, what do you see?"Sherlock prodded. He was getting impatient, but John had no real idea of what to do. He'd never started these things; it was always Sherlock who figured it out, not him.

John looked at the woman harder. She was in her sixties, graying hair, a wedding ring, so she was married; but nothing else.

"Not much." John turned back towards his flatmate in exasperation, "Sherlock, this is ridiculous!"

Sherlock gripped his friend's shoulder and pushed him back towards the body, "Start with what you know, John." He instructed, "What's the cause of death?"

That was obvious; it was the gunshot wound in her forehead of course. Any moron would know that.

John pointed to it, "Gunshot wound."

"Now, what do you know about the gunshot wound?"

With a deep breath, John inched closer to the woman's face. He pushed some of her hair away from her face, and looked at the hole. Then he looked at the back of her head and didn't find one to match it. Conclusion? The bullet was still in her skull.

"Long range shot." John began, "This kind of caliber would have gone straight through at close range." John shifted, "But the morgue is so small, even if the killer stood pressed up against the wall and fired as she was in the doorframe, it still would have gone straight through."

"So then the question is: where did the bullet come from?"Lestrade finished the thought, ignoring Sherlock's smug expression. He was obviously enjoying watching John work at the puzzle set before him. He enjoyed it like one would enjoy watching a kitten chase the ever-evasive red light. Lestrade suddenly felt bad for John, he actually had to live with the man.

John looked around the walls of the room, figuring there might be a hole in the wall where the barrel could've rested, but when he heard Sherlock give a 'tut-tut', he knew that wasn't the way to go about things.

A different approach was in order then. _Well if I wanted to kill her, _John straightened _I'd want to be someplace hidden. _John moved over towards the metal cabinets inside the wall. _In here maybe? But they're airtight; and even if he did hold his breath. he'd have to hope she wouldn't diddle-dally or get distracted for too long._

"Which body was she in here for?" John suddenly asked, turning to Lestrade who'd been talking to one of his subordinates.

Lestrade perked a brow, turning completely around to face the good doctor, "John Doe 17a. He was one of her patients from the psych ward… why?"

"I don't really know." John sighed truthfully as he moved towards the right cabinet and opened it. It seemed perfectly empty, nothing suspicious, except for the fact that John Doe 17a was missing. _Where was the body?_

"John?"

"Um, yeah… where _is_ 17a?"

"Different morgue." Lestrade pointed back towards the door, "He hadn't been put away yet. Now, do you mind telling me what you're doing?"

"Shush!" Sherlock snapped leaping up from his perch in the corner, "John is on the case!" Hand slapped over Lestrade's mouth, Sherlock continued to eye John as the man gave a disturbed glace towards the two of them.

John wasn't too fond of this teaching method.

He sighed, rubbing his hand through his hair before looking inside the tin box. That's when an idea struck him. _It's a possibility… _John pulled out the tray that rested inside the box; on the bottom. He unfolded the legs so it could stand on its own, and was about to weigh himself onto it, but hesitated. He didn't want to go in there if he didn't have to.

He turned back to Sherlock, guessing that if he just got the idea right, he wouldn't have to climb inside the early grave.

"Am I right?" He asked.

"About what, John? I have no idea what you're talking about." Sherlock knew _exactly_ what John was talking about; he just wanted to see him inside a dead man's coffin. _Jerk._

John sent a harsh glare as pulled up his sleeves in spite before raising himself onto the table. He laid down flat, like a dead man would, and pulled himself into the cabinet head first.

By now, all eyes were on John, whose feet were still sticking out of the contraption. They were all curious and slightly concerned for John's well being, but Sherlock made sure they stayed quiet, so as not to disturb John's thinking process. It was never a luxury Sherlock himself received, so he was glad he could accommodate his student with such a good first time experience.

John, still inside the cabinet, would occasionally shift his legs, as his feet were still outside of the metal box. They watched as his feet would twitch and at one point he even rolled over and gave a low grunt which was followed by a string of curses about the dark or how he'd cut his finger or how his leg had suddenly fallen asleep.

Lestrade was about to call this whole thing off when suddenly a loud crash and John's undignified yelp was heard as his feet suddenly disappeared, like the coffin had swallowed him whole!

"Doctor!" Lestrade called, worried, as he rushed towards the hole in the wall. Both he and Sherlock, who were now looking inside, saw the cabinet's back was opened like the front had. It revealed the boiler room, and inside they could see a table and a chair in the background, but not much.

Truth be told, they were watching John, or at least his leg, which was the only part of him they _could_ see. It rested uncomfortably in the air as its owner released a low agonizing moan as his chest deflated from the impact.

"Found it." He whimpered, letting the throbbing pain slowly ease out of his spine.

Sherlock clapped as he plunged his head into the metal cabinet, "Excellent work, John!" He called, "I knew you'd get it eventually!"

"Thanks." Deadpan, "I think."

"Figured out who murderer is yet?"

"What? No!" John suddenly shot up, slamming his hands down on the metal flooring of the box and pushing his head back inside the dark pit, "Have you?"

"Of course! It was dreadfully easy, but don't worry, Doctor. You'll get there... sooner or later."

**I have chapter 3 finished, but I think I'll wait until I finish chapter 4 before I post anything. In case I have to change a few small details. It'll probably be up around the 26th or 27th.**

**Please review! 3**


	3. Chapter 3

**I apologize for any OOC-ness any of the characters may expierence. Please bear through my poor writing skills and enjoy the story. :D**

**Love you all, Merry Christmas, and May God Bless you! **

It was red and pulsing and looked extraordinarily painful, "Are you sure you're alright, Dr. Watson?" Lestrade asked when he caught a glance of the knot on the back John Watson's skull.

John'd been sitting on the table in the boiler room, with an ice pack to the large bump on the back of his head. He'd gotten it when he'd fallen from the cabinet, and it was beginning to cause a rather large amount of discomfort.

The table itself though, something which Sherlock had first been preoccupied with, was large and sturdy, so there was need to worry that it might collapse under the doctor's weight. Not saying that he was fat or anything, but he was rather large for his size. John swore it was all muscles, but Sherlock was less than convinced.

"I'm fine, only a three foot drop." Sarcasm, the only cure for the stinging pain in the back of his head, Lestrade gave a curt nod, in understanding. That bump had reminded Lestrade of a similar one he'd gotten in his first year as DI. He never saw the wet floor sign. They really ought to make them more noticeable!

"So John, do you know what happened?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Would you like to explain?"

"No. Sherlock. I could possibly have a concussion. I don't want to _explain _anything right now." He shifted in his metal chair before sending a short lived glare towards Sherlock, "You do it."

"That would defeat the point of this entire week's exercise." Sherlock had stated it like it had been the most obvious thing in the world. John was less than thrilled.

"I hate you." John sent a sharp glare in Sherlock's direction. The other just rolled his eyes with a smug grin plastered over his face.

It was pointless in arguing with Sherlock, but that never really stopped him from trying.

John pointed towards the door, "Suspect entered with a gun. He removed the bricks along the back of the casket designated for 17a. Jill Small opens the casket, and he shoots her. He then reattaches the rear back into place, sets back the bricks and leaves."

Sherlock nodded, "Perfect John. You may have wanted to add something about the killer though. Height, weight, background, it could prove useful to the nice policemen."

"Sherlock," He griped, "What can you possibly tell? He didn't leave anything behind!" He threw up his hands in frustration, leaving Sherlock to shake his head in disapproval.

"I'm beginning to pity you, John."

John, though stifled, remained firm and crossed his arms across his chest, "Mind sharing with the class then? Since you know it all I mean."

Sherlock pointed towards the door, "He had access to the boiler room, something that's only assessable if one's an employee in this hospital. He had a gun and a silencer, since no one heard the shot which would have normally echoed, so he was experienced with guns, he knew how to handle them. He was strong, being able to remove the brick from the backing of the cabinets like he did, so he's most likely male, and he left nothing behind, so he's a pro, done this before."

John couldn't help but give a small smile. Every time Sherlock did some sort of amazingly ridiculous deduction, he couldn't help but be even somewhat slightly amazed at the man before him.

"So what now?"

"I'd like a look at John Doe 17a." Sherlock moved towards the door, "He'll probably pose more answers and maybe prove a better learning experience for you, John."

"Learning experience? Sherlock, I think we both know this is a futile effort. Why in the world are you putting me through this?"

Sherlock gave a smile back towards John, "I've already told you doctor, now come along!" And with that Sherlock left the boiler room, heading towards the secondary morgue. John sighed, placing the ice down on the table, before running after Sherlock giving a shout; telling him to 'wait up'.

Sherlock and John made their way towards the secondary morgue and got a good look at the man under the sheet. Sherlock had immediately recognized him as Ronny Howard, a member of a local gang. He was Sherlock's dealer in the time before he'd known John. Sherlock had always wondered what had happened to him after he'd disappeared so many years ago, but never found it interesting enough to find out for himself.

With Ronny Howard being a gang member in the higher ranks, and his sheet noting that he'd been remembering things about his past, it was reasonable to assume that with his new found amnesiac-given conscience he was going to turn on the gang. He was probably most likely confiding in Jill so she could go to the police, which ended in both his and her deaths to protect the gang.

John listened closely to Sherlock taking the handle on this case, explaining and deducing things that only he could. John felt a small twinge of pride as he listened to Sherlock go on about a single scratch that could mean so much. Deduction was always and will always be his thing, it was blatantly obvious, and so the question remained: _why did Sherlock want to teach John how to do it? _

He sighed, the idea was lost on him, but he was sure there was some underlining reasoning that would explain it very well, even if it only made sense to Sherlock himself. However, for the moment, he'd need to catch up to the Consulting Detective, as he'd said something about a visit to the psych ward and fled rather quickly. John had a feeling that Sherlock was going to do something stupid, but then, that was the definition of living with a man like Sherlock. A doctor's hellish nightmare for sure.

"Ah, Dr. Maes, I'd like to ask you a few questions?" Sherlock got to the point awfully fast. As soon as he entered the psych ward, he'd seen the doctor flirting with the receptionist and charged over there demanding an interrogation with the poor guy.

Tactfulness was a meaningless cultural practice lost on Sherlock, something which John often found himself apologizing for quite often.

"Excuse me?" The man asked, turning around, "Who _are_ you?"

Sherlock gave a smile that could put the Cheshire cat to shame, "Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective."

A tense moment passed. Sherlock Holmes could defiantly be intimidating when he wanted to be.

"Dr. John Watson, it's a pleasure." The doctor held out his hand, breaking the tension, "We're working with the police on the murder of Jill Small, and were hoping you could spare us a few seconds to answer a couple of questions. After all, you are her supervisor and were also in charge of the late Ronny Howard, better known to you as John Doe 17a. Do you mind much? We're not intruding are we?"

Maes gave a warm smile and shook his head, "No, not at all. Fire away." He shifted on his feet some but seemed happy enough to oblige when it didn't feel like he was being cornered.

Ah, _how wonderful art thou tactfulness_?

Sherlock titled his head that smile still broadcast across his face.

"Did you murder Jill Small and Ronald Howard?"

**Very tactful Sherlock. Very tactful. -_-;**

**Please review! I love them so. 3**


	4. Chapter 4

**This has got to be one of my favorite chapters. ^^ **

"Ouch, John! Watch it!"

John huffed, "Well you deserved it, the way you accused him of murdering Jill Small like you did."

Sherlock was appalled, "He punched me!" He was practically whining.

Jeez, Sherlock could be sucha baby. He goes and accuses a man of a double homicide, and expects to _not _be whacked in the face? John shook his head as he continued to stitch the broken skin above his right brow. He shivered at the idea of what would have happened if he hadn't been there to stop the fight between the two men.

Maes looked like he wanted to do a lot more than just punch Sherlock at the moment, but he calmed down when John got between them and apologized for Sherlock's rudeness. The doctor had straightened himself out at once and left for his office, leaving Sherlock on the floor. John had soon joined him on the floor, looking him over for any lasting damage.

It wasn't much, a bleeding nose and split eyebrow, but they sure could hurt. John'd been in enough fights to know that much, but he'd never gotten hit hard enough _to need stitches_; that was a first for him and apparently for Sherlock as well. He'd apparently never needed stitches before, a fact which John found hard pressed, but ignored. Maybe Mycroft played a more active role in Sherlock's life before John'd met him. Whatever the case, it was in the past and it didn't matter at the moment.

"Yes, Sherlock, he punched you. It was bound to happen eventually."

A moment.

"Do you really think he did it?"

"I know he did." Sherlock confirmed, "I have no legal proof, but I am positive it was him. He had a cut in his right hand, between the thumb and the forefinger. Only a semi automatic gun could make that kind of cut, I guess he hasn't needed to shoot anyone recently. It really is a novice sort of thing to do."

"That's it?"

"And I recognized him from the gang. He used to be a drug dealer too, never supplied me mind you, but I'd seen him at the warehouse before. He's really come up in the world, from drug dealer to murderer; I'm really impressed. I'd have never expected it from him."

John sat back, hands resting on his knees, "So, what are you going to do then?"

Sherlock shrugged, "He probably has the murder weapon in his office, but in a psych ward they've better security than a high-priority prison. However, the only way in allowing for snooping is as an employee of the hospital or a patient, both of which are impossible."

John looked up, "Well, maybe…" John stood, "I'm sure I could get you admitted, but we'd have to change your appearance. Cut your hair, dye it, colored contact lenses, and maybe the staff won't recognize you."

Sherlock gave him a strange look, like John was the crazy one. Ha. Funny that.

"Hey, I've seen you act. You're pretty good, this shouldn't be too challenging."

Sherlock stood slowly and stared into John's eyes, "You…" He paused, "You want to admit me into a Psych ward?"

The other shrugged, "That's the general idea. You'd have to play along well though, take meds, sharing circles, yard time, and you'd get another roommate." John stuck his hands into his pockets, "And you'd have to stop the deductions. It'd give you away immediately. However you would be in the psych ward, and have better access to Maes office."

"John, you do realize that any proof I would obtain wouldn't be admissible in court."

"Well, we'd just plant it in a public place, like his locker, and then lead Lestrade there with some bogus deduction you'd cook up."

Sherlock took a step back, "You do realize you just suggested I break and enter an office before stealing evidence and planting it someplace else, correct? Such an act _is_ usually considered illegal in some countries. You do know that?"

"Wow." John's head drooped, his chin hitting his chest, "What a day when you're the voice of reason in our little team." He glanced towards the ceiling in a _'Heaven, help me' _sort ofgesture. "Just, uh… just forget I said anything. Sorry, I don't know what cam-"

Sherlock shook his head and placed his hands on John's shoulders, "No, no. I'm actually quite proud of you."

The detective gave a wide grin, "Let's do it."

"Is it too late to take my suggestion back? I think I've changed my mind."

"Get the scissors, John."

**And that's it for today. It's late, so I'll probably be heading off for bed soon.**

**Please review! I love feeling the love! 8D**

**Merry Christmas!**


	5. Chapter 5

**I think this might be the last of John for a few chapters. I might mention him in passing, but these next ones are going to be more focused on Sherlock. **

**If you guys have any specific Psych Ward scenes you want displayed, speak now or forever hold your peace. 8D**

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Sherlock and John entered the Psych Ward's reception area of the hospital.

Sherlock's appearance had changed dramatically as his hair, which was usually rather long black and curly, was now short dirty-blonde and straight. His grey eyes were now brown, and while he was of great stature, he was slouching and hunched over, weaving and sliding causing an impression of being of less height. John himself wasn't much different than before, except for donning a pair of large black glasses in case Dr. Maes showed up. He wouldn't want the man to recognize him, then again even Lestrade and his team barely remembered John; and they saw him on practically a daily basis, then alone a man he'd met just once a day ago.

"Excuse me." John gave a weak smile towards the receptionist who looked up toward him, "I'd like to admit a patient." He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, causing the woman to flush, before pointing towards Sherlock who was a bit of a distance off. He was focused on the thin air in front of him, listening in a very disturbing sort of manor.

"My brother, Daniel Watson." John turned back towards the woman, "He needs help."

"What's you name again?" She smiled, "I'm so sorry, I didn't catch it." _Dr. John Watson_,she made a mental note of that as well as the other personal information he'd given her that would be needed if he was to admit anyone to the hospital.

"So, Dr. Watson-"

"John, please."

She flushed again, "_John_," She was as red as a beat, "what was the cause for mental concern?"

"See, Ms. Tuff-"

"Kaylee."

John smiled and gave a nod, "_Kaylee,_ he never eats or sleeps. He doesn't have any friends, and anyone he does come across he alienates. He's a sociopath, and" John began to whisper this last part, "He steals body parts from the morgue and keeps them hidden around the flat."

Kaylee shifted nervously, "_Human_ body parts?"

He nodded, "Yeah, today I found eye balls in the microwave, and just three days ago there was a severed human head in the fridge. He calls them 'experiments'."

She held her hands to her mouth and gasped, "I see." She began to type on her keyboard once more, but with more fury and passion than before, "I'll register him, just give me a moment, John."

John nodded in affirmation, "I'd also like to classified as his next-of-kin. I want to know exactly what you have him on and when, as well as anything strange or out of the ordinary he may do while in your capable hands." John gave her a reassuring smile before he turned back to Sherlock, "I would also like to be able to pull him out whenever I want. If I decide he's better off out of the hospital than in, I want to be able to pull him out without any hassle."

"I understand completely." She gave John's hand a firm squeeze, "I'll have it all set up. Don't worry, I'll make sure they take good care of your brother."

"Thank you."

She cocked her head and gave a large grin as she stood, walking out from behind her desk, "Oh, it's no problem! I can see how much you love him. In fact, I wish more family members came in with as much love for their family as you do."

John shrugged as the two walked over to Sherlock whose gaze had shifted to them, watching them approach, "Of course I love him, he's my brother; I wouldn't even be standing here if it wasn't for him."

"John." Sherlock greeted, "Can we go now? I have to tend to the fingers in the fridge or my experiment will be all for naught."

John took Sherlock by the arm and gave a deep and warm smiled, "I'll take care of the fingers, Daniel; but right now I want to introduce you to this nice young lady, Kaylee Tuff."

She nodded, "Daniel."

Sherlock eyed her, piecing together her entire life just by the way she held herself.

"Careful, John," Sherlock warned, "She's got a boyfriend who doesn't seem the type to forgive harmless flirtation."

She gasped, "How did-"

"Your hair, the way it's frayed and messy, and your clinginess to John already spoke abusive boyfriend. However, it would have spoken _whore_ if you didn't have that bruise on your cheek which you so carefully covered with high quality make-up."

He grinned, "You also have a younger sister, much younger, who lives far away, that's obvious from the necklace you're wearing. It's childish, but affectionate and since you obviously don't have the right traits to be a mother, it's a sibling; and little boys don't buy their older sisters jewelry until they hit puberty. Obviously."

"Your shoes are worn and painfully old, so you didn't make a lot of money as they couldn't possibly be good for your feet, and since women liked to take good care of themselves, especially receptionists and secretaries, it speaks of your money situation. You're smart, based on that level five Sudoku puzzle in your pocket, but stuck with an abusive boyfriend and a poor paying job? No, you're still in college, only reason why'd you stick around that shrub of a boyfriend you've got."

"Kaylee, I'd appreciate it if you didn't get John into any precarious situations with your boyfriend. He's not your knight in shining armor, however hard he may try to be. The only foreseeable result will end in his admittance to a hospital for a knifing or gunshot wound, mostly likely knifing unless John were to have his Army SIG on him; then he'd be shot."

John wasn't too sure what happened, he saw the expression of happiness turn to sheer embarrassment and shame on Kaylee's face before her hand rose and flung itself across Sherlock's cold hearted and expressionless features. He saw Sherlock's head still at a 90 degree angle as Kaylee told him off, telling him it wasn't any of his business and that he was the worst possible sort of sod there was, maybe even worse than her boyfriend who at least knew how to keep his mouth shut.

John was still gob struck, he'd never seen someone react so harshly to Sherlock, but then again, Sherlock hadn't met anyone new after he'd met John. Was _this _what Sherlock had been expecting in the cab? Had he been expecting John to slap him and tell him off? That would certainly seem to be the case, it was no wonder he'd been surprised at John's reaction. John was amazed, everyone else was repulsed.

John watched her expression of disgust and hate fill her as she glared at him, and felt as if he understood a whole new layer to his best friend, and maybe even his brother; not it blood though, but in bond. Sherlock at the moment _was _the closest thing to family he had. Sure he had Harry, but was always berating him, teasing him, or drunk. He never really could have a relationship with her, despite how ever had he'd tried to connect to his baby sister.

Sherlock wasn't close to Mycroft at all, often wishing the man would drop out of his life forever; and he didn't have any friends, just colleagues, clients, and enemies. John had no doubt been the first friend Sherlock had had in a very long time, which would explain the occasional awkwardness between them.

John couldn't help but give a light smirk at the thought of how close he and Sherlock had grown in just shy of four months time. It was ridiculous, but he couldn't imagine his life any other way.

"Come along, _Daniel._" Kaylee hissed as she walked towards the entrance to the ward. Sherlock left to follow, but John grabbed his shoulder and looked him in the eye.

Sherlock understood the silent warning, the quiet message in John's eyes and nodded. John gave one back, released his hold, he could only watch now. The rest would be in Sherlock's hands.

He could only stay close by in case Sherlock requires assistance. John doubted he would; but it was always better safe than sorry, something he'd learned in Afghanistan.

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	6. Chapter 6

**Okay, the Psych Ward chapters begin! Hopefully Sherlock isn't too OOC, and you guys are all still with me. It has been a while since I updated, it's just I had a brithday and Christmas all around the same time, so mine was pressed.**

**Once again I mention that if you guys have any specific Psych Ward scenes you want displayed, speak now or forever hold your peace. ****

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"Now, this is the main room." A nurse gestured her hand to the large space before herself. The hard wood floors were not expensive, but they weren't rubbish either.

Sherlock noticed an occasional and very noticeable scrape along the floors. He could only assume they were caused by the furniture that now occupied some of the corners and the perimeters of the room.

Other patients sat on the chairs scattered about, a few were socializing, but many preferred not to. One in particular would rather run repeatedly into the nearest wall than to communicate with the woman eating beside him. One could see why many of the patients were in such a place as this with but a single glance.

And Sally Donovan thought _he _was a freak.

"You'll be doing a lot in this room, from recreational activities to support circles." She smiled, "Most of your day will be in here."

He gave a slight nod before he followed her deeper inside the room. She led him to the piano in the corner where another man sat. His name was Reginald Clark, and despite his perch at the piano, he was not playing. He found it more interesting to finger the keys than to actually play them.

Reginald seemed rather normal despite that behavior however. He had frayed red hair, flat black eyes, and thin lips on that light complexion of his. Irish, married but divorced, mid-thirties, father, delusional and hallucinogenic episodes. Wonderful specimen he was.

"This is your roommate, Reggie. He has a similar condition to yours, although, his delusions aren't _quite_ as vivid." She spoke harshly and not without a sharp glare in Sherlock's direction, no doubt a result of his earlier treatment towards Kaylee. She shrugged it off, before she placed a gentle hand on Reggie's shoulder that seemed enough to pull him back from the haze in hiss mind.

His eyes snapped back into focus and some blood returned to his drained face. He looked about, and saw the two people behind him. "Hey?" He grinned curiously as he spun around, "What's up?"

The man may be Irish, but he had an American accent with just a smidgen of English in there. He must've moved from the US to England not too long ago, a score at the very furthest.

"Reggie, this is Daniel Watson." The Nurse introduced, "He's going to be your new roommate."

Reggie sprung from his seat, "Awesome, nice to finally meet the new guy." Another grin.

"Finally?"

"Oh yeah, dude. News travels fast, but gossip is faster, and might I say that you _have _to be nice to the ladies. It just won't do any other way."

"The receptionist should have something nicer in her life for me to say then."

Reggie crossed his arms and raised a brow, "Man, she's like, married, no Bo on the side. She's not in college, she just likes the game, and those bruises?" Reggie pointed to another patient in a corner, he was laced in a straight jacket, "Are from the _less passive _patients. She slapped you 'cause you called her a _whore." _Reggie wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulder and whispered into his ear, "Not the best way to score a date, mate." Reginald separated himself before clapping him on the back, "But don't worry, that's what therapy's for. Helps with all of us, it does. Come on then. Support Circle is about to start!" Reggie motioned for Sherlock to follow the man as he moved away, but the nurse grabbed Sherlock by the arm, stopping him.

"One more thing Daniel, there are rules here you simply must follow."

She paused.

"No fighting or anything of that like, participation is a must, and you have to take your meds. Don't cheek them or anything."

Sherlock shifted, "About the meds I-"

"I'm fully aware of your previous recreational uses of pharmaceuticals, Mr. Watson. Your brother, Dr. Watson, gave clear instructions about them. You'll be haven' no relapses on our accounts, I can assure you of that."

Sherlock gave a grin in honor to his currently absent flatmate who'd done an excellent job in preparation for this infiltration. _Bravo, John!_

"Speaking of your brother-" The nurse continued, capturing the Sherlock's attention once again, "He set up a couple of ground rules for you to follow." _Come on, John, and just when you were doing so well too! _

"You're not allowed to skip meals. You must have at least two a day, and you have a curfew. Seven o' clock you be in your room."

Sherlock repeated the nurse, "Meals? Curfew?" He was absolutely appalled at the idea! He wasn't in here for a vacation after all, no! He was trying to solve a murder. What _was_ John thinking? He was being an idiot. He always was an idiot.

It was going to be hard enough as is to get into Maes's office, since he was in another section of the psych ward and the bloody thing was locked, but now he had to contend with mandatory meals? A curfew? Seven O' clock was going to give him absolutely no time at all to get the proof he needed against that bloody doctor.

"Yes, curfew and mandatory meals. However, I'm afraid that the curfew will mean you'll be alone for three hours as bed time is at ten. I trust that won't be a problem?"

_Of course! _Sherlock inwardly grinned. It made perfect sense now!

John was giving him three hours off the clock. Three hours to get into the office and get out without being caught. Three hours without any sort of activities thrust upon him.

_I take it all back, John! That's brilliant!_

"No. No problem at all." A ghost of a smile could be seen on Sherlock's face, but the nurse missed it. She didn't know Sherlock well enough to be able to see those small features contort on his face. As of to count, only Mycroft and John have ever been able to see those small muscle movements; only they knew him well enough. The nurse left Sherlock to follow after his roommate, missing the invisible grin.

The invisible grin still dancing over his expressionless face.

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